#with kittens

Shepard stirs, a warm ember against Miranda’s chest, but doesn’t emerge. There’s a datapad on the end table to Miranda’s left, but she doesn’t reach for it. There was a time when she couldn’t have resisted. A spare moment was a moment wasted, and waste was a luxury she could not afford. Her entire life had been spent hanging by a thread. Escaping her father. Rebuilding Shepard. Saving Oriana. Destroying the collectors. Surviving the reapers. Too much depended on success, too much at stake for failure to squander those spare moments to just…nothing at all.

But this isn’t nothing. Not really. Time is still just as precious. Even more precious with every passing moment.

Because they have it now.

Gently, she strokes Shepard’s hair.

It’s a new normal, one she hasn’t adjusted to yet. The itch in her fingers to grab the datapad is still there, but it’s a learned response, not something she really feels. What she wants is this, Shepard, quiet, warm, and still against her.

She nearly chuckles to herself. Imagine. The galaxy’s savior. Still. In Shepard the galaxy had discovered an unstoppable kinetic force, a woman perpetually in motion, a tide eternally thrashing the shoreline. How many nights had Miranda found her alone in the mess, drinking coffee and reading through a stack of reports, too restless for sleep? How many times had they strode into battle together, Shepard flaring like a star gone nova, using her own body as a projectile in lieu of a bullet? She was more comfortable with a gun in her hand than without it, happier in armor than she ever was in her own skin. Still is not a state Shepard could ever hope to aspire to, at least the Shepard that Miranda had woken up on a lab table nearly five years ago.

And yet.

Nothing, it appears, is impossible. Shepard has seen to that.

Another stiff breeze rattles the windowpane, sending fingers of cold air searching for a way through the blanket.

Of course, Miranda wishes Shepard would prefer seeing to it in the city.

A muffled nrmph comes from under the blanket. Moments later Shepard pushes her head out just enough to look up at Miranda with a sleepy scowl. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?” she mumbles.

“Because,” Miranda replies, tugging at the blanket, which has slipped enough to reveal Shepard’s bare toes. “You insist both on living in the snow-forsaken middle of nowhere and not wearing socks.”

Shepard’s scowl deepens, but unlike a few conversations she vividly remembers with the Illusive Man, it has no bite to it. “I like it out here. And I hate socks.”

“I know,” Miranda replies. Her smile is deep, tender, and before she can help herself she leans down and presses her lips to Shepard’s, kissing her long and slow until the scowl fades away.

This new normal may be different, but Miranda confesses she quite enjoys it.

Shepard sits up abruptly, shucking off the blanket. All traces of sleep vanish from her face in an instant, replaced by the familiar hard lines of an old soldier. “Hear that?” she asks, reaching out of habit for a sidearm that isn’t there. Her voice is low, hard, ready to give an order.

“I don’t hear—” Miranda stops, because now she does hear it. It’s a small sound, but shrill.

Shepard hits her feet, grabbing the pistol she’s stashed by the door. She doesn’t bother with a coat – or shoes, for that matter – before throwing open the door, pistol leveled in the direction of the sound.

Miranda catches a glimpse of something small and vaguely brown dart off into the snow.